


Whose Duty Was Fulfilled

by thegrumblingirl



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Daud and Corvo are returning vets, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, help I'm back on my bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16188539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: The moment it starts, there’s always pain. Not real, but remembered; memories that become dreams that become nightmares. Breaths that turn to quicken and a heartbeat that skips and stops.It’s not real.It’s not real.Story playlisthere.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not his own voice that wakes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so. I had this vague idea a while ago, and it wouldn't leave me the FUCK alone, and then last night/this morning I had a breakthrough and I had to at least start. I'll keep working on it when I have the time, and I'll post chapters as they get done.

The moment it starts, there’s always pain. Not real, but remembered; memories that become dreams that become nightmares. Breaths that turn to quicken and a heartbeat that skips and stops.

It’s not real.

_It’s not real_.

Attano. Fuck, Attano, wake up. ATTANO!

It’s not his own voice that wakes him.

*

Corvo is wrenched from the dream without warning and without pretence: one moment he’s under, the next he’s not; instead breathing heavily and feeling sweat cooling on his forehead. He sits up, shoves the covers off, braces his elbows on his knees, tucks his chin against his chest and _breathes_. The tips of his fingers are numb where they push into his hair, and he can’t hear the quiet over the blood rushing in his ears.

There’s no hope of going back to sleep, so he doesn’t try. He gets up, he makes his bed, tucks in the sheets as though he’s back at the academy and laughs at himself. He moves to the kitchen, he makes coffee, he gets ready to go out for a run — it’s 5am, the sun is barely rising, and anyone who sees him will think, ‘There’s a man who has his shit together.’ He spares a smile for that, too.

*

It’s 6am when he unlocks the door to his apartment. It’s small, it’s tucked away just outside the capital. A logical place for a vet to settle after this last tour, especially one without family. Corvo touches a fingertip to the photo of Emily he keeps on the dresser next to the door. Jessamine sent it to him just before he deployed; and he still doesn’t understand if it was punishment, or an incentive to return. Return — for good. He’s stateside now, and he thinks it ought to feel some sort of way. He’s not sure yet.

His phone chirps with a text.

> _New VA meeting at St. Martin’s Cathedral, every Tuesday, 3pm. Get your asses over there if you’re in the area. — Col. Fálaina_

The text is addressed to everyone the Colonel knows _exactly_ is likely to be in the area, and Corvo smirks before setting down his phone. He needs a shower and breakfast, in that order, and then he can think about whether to go to the meeting. It’s unlikely the colonel will be there to call roll, but it’s not the first text like this he’s sent since his squad’s return; and Corvo’s pretty certain he’s received all of them. He’s never replied — what do you say to the guy who risked his own ass to save your life?

Corvo remembers meeting him, remembers his own squad nervous as hell because apparently they’d decided they were going to hate each other at first sight. ‘Two headstrong bastards,’ Geoff had mumbled around a cigarette while cleaning his rifle, ‘you’re either gonna butt heads all the damn time or not talk at all.’

The day of, Fálaina sized him up, shook his hand, rumbled his name, and told him to keep his squad in some fucking semblance of order. Corvo didn’t bother with the pissing contest and asked him what the target was, instead.

By nightfall, they were covered in sand and ash and barking orders at anyone they outranked.

Days later, back at the base, Geoff let himself drop into a chair to take up the cards. ‘Didn’t know you were a dragon tamer, Corvo,’ was all he said, and Corvo rolled his eyes, told him to deal.

More missions followed the first, because evidently command saw the appeal.

‘Get your head out of your ass, Attano,’ Fálaina told him the night before a raid, handing him a glass of whiskey. ‘It’s a shit idea, but it’s not the worst they’ve had.’

‘The idea is fucked,’ was all Corvo said in reply. Fálaina shrugged.

When Corvo woke up a day later in a hole so dark it might have been hell and stinking of piss that might well have been his own, he knew he’d been right.

It’s Tuesday.

*

When he leaves the apartment, he looks at Emily’s photo again. The road to seeing her again will be long and winding and taking him to places he doesn’t want to go. He knows, because he signed divorce papers the evening before a raid that cost him three men. It was his second tour. ‘The Attanos are three-tour men,’ Corvo heard his father’s voice that night. Jessamine had known that when they married, but perhaps she’d hoped it wouldn’t stick.

He touches his fingertips to his lips, then to the photo frame, and opens the door.

*

The meeting is led by a no-nonsense Sergeant, who’s got no patience for bullshit but clearly _wants_ to be there, and as soon as Corvo can persuade himself to _listen_ instead of disappearing inside his own head every five minutes, he might even be glad he came.

“It’s ok to struggle with adjusting,” Jenkins says now, taking a moment to look around at the two dozen vets sitting around him, each in turn. “I don’t know your stories yet, but I’ll make it my business to, and I want you to know that I give a fuck.”

This raises a chuckle from around the room, and Jenkins smiles.

“We’re gonna offer counselling and help you with finding jobs and healthy outlets,“ he continues, “because you’re gonna need all of those. It’s going to be a long road, but you’ve already made the first step. You don’t _have_ to be here — you chose to. That’s the first and hardest choice you made _today_ out of the way.”

Next, they take turns introducing themselves, and by the time it’s Corvo’s turn, his hands have stopped trembling.

*

After the meeting, he doesn’t linger long, but it’s enough to be singled out.

“Attano,” a voice calls his name, and he turns to find a familiar face in the doorway. Colonel Fálaina, with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame, projecting the image of someone who’s relaxed and not assessing everyone in the room with his sharp, scarred gaze.

“Colonel,” Corvo greets, out of habit. “Fálaina,” he amends, then, stepping over to offer his hand to shake. He’s not seen him in months. He looks different, in civilian clothing.

“We’re both retired, no need for ceremony,” Fálaina shakes his hand.

“You retired?” Corvo asks, surprised. “I thought they wanted to keep you on active duty.”

Fálaina throws him a critical glance. “They did. I said no.”

“Oh,” is all Corvo knows to say.

“It was enough,“ Fálaina helps him out. He casts a look over Corvo’s shoulder. “You think it’s going to be a good fit?”

“Do you haunt all the meetings you send us?“ Corvo demands more than he asks it, and the question’s out before he can stop himself and bite his tongue.

Daud returns a sharp grin. “Someone has to.” Then, he sobers. “Don’t worry, Attano, I won’t lurk in the background every time you come here. Not doing this with someone you know looking over your shoulder is kinda the point.”

“I’m sorry,” Corvo apologises. “I… appreciate that you take the time.”

Fálaina shrugs. “You’re not the only one with a lot of free time on his hands.”

Corvo nods. “I gotta go,” he says at length, because there are words he should say but can’t — they start out small, but eventually they become bigger and bigger. They go from ‘thank you,’ to ‘you saved my life,’ and end at ‘I was shipped out before I could talk to you;’ and then he wonders if Fálaina has time for gratitude, or if the moment has passed. Or if he’ll say that he was just doing his job. War forges friendships, brotherhoods, and it forges them fast; but these bonds may be as fleeting in the daylight as they were steadfast and true under the cover of night and mortar fire.

Now it’s Fálaina’s turn to nod. He doesn’t seem surprised.

“Thank you for pointing me here, Fálaina,” Corvo says as he offers his hand to shake again, and that’s almost easy.

“Don’t mention it,” Fálaina says, then lets a moment pass. “And the name’s Daud.”

“Corvo,” Corvo returns.

“Colonel,” Jenkins’s voice sounds from behind him and Corvo turns to see him approach. “Thank you for coming by, sir.”

“Sergeant,” Fálaina — Daud — greets him.

Jenkins stops next to Corvo, looks between them. “You two know each other?“

Daud nods, then looks to Corvo. Lets him answer, Corvo realises, and rallies, grating at the _courtesy_ even as he appreciates it. Not all courtesy is pity, he reminds himself. And in any case, pity is the last thing he expects from Fálaina. Daud.

“Our squads were stationed in Wynnedown,” Corvo tells Jenkins, no more, no less. It’s simple, and depending on how much Jenkins thinks he knows, it’ll explain some or nothing at all, and frankly Corvo doesn’t care.

Jenkins merely nods, and there’s something in his eyes that tells Corvo he knows at least _some_. Well. Army gossip’s no less potent than that of fishermen, and there have to be two or three tall tales of what command had sent them to do up there floating around.

“I was based in Fraeport,” he offers freely, “didn’t get into as much trouble as the squads from Wynnedown, but enough for it to be my last tour. When I got back, I met the Colonel at Whitehall last year. He and my Captain knew each other,” he adds for Corvo’s benefit. “He pointed me at someone at the VA who might be able to help me set up something like this. Still, took until now to make it happen.”

Corvo’s impressed, and curious, and it takes him a moment to remember that he’s supposed to be going.

“I’ll leave you to talk,” he says, nodding at Daud and then at Jenkins. “This is impressive,” he adds, because it is and he’s all out of gratitude but hopes it will be understood.

“Thank you,” Jenkins smiles, “I hope we’ll be able to keep this going. Hey, see you next Tuesday?”

Corvo doesn’t give himself time to think before he nods. “See you next Tuesday.“ He throws Daud another glance, whose face gives nothing away, and then he turns to leave.

On the way out, he remembers to take one of the flyers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Daud's last name is Greek for 'whale.' I know. I KNOW.  
> b) Yes, I know what the tags say. I put them there on purpose. IT'S ANOTHER SLOW BURN, MORONS!  
> c) *whispers* we're all gonna die  
> d) Work and chapter titles come from Gordon Lightfoot's _Protocol_. [Listen here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BeCLSfExXB4).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No man left behind, Jenkins,” he says. “That’s bigger than Attano and me. That’s the code.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, we're back with soldier boy au; and it turns out that we're back to POV alternating by chapter, so... gird your loins, I guess, today Daud has arrived in all his glory to charm your pants off. This chapter is just pocket grumble riding on his shoulder to see what he does and writing everything down, so must of this was as much of a surprise to me as it will be to you. Howdy! An adventure!
> 
> Hugs and thank-yous to everyone who commented on the first chapter to let me know they're ready to suffer (and, oh, you WILL), and a shout-out to whoever sent me a message on the tumble to ask if I'm the devil. I've never felt more flattered in my life.

Daud follows Corvo’s progress out of the room for a moment, noting that he halts at the piles of flyers for counselling and job fairs he knows Jenkins laid out. He’s aware it’s none of his business — despite what Attano seems to think, he owes him nothing: not his confidence, not his life story beyond what he already knows, the usual tales exchanged over whiskey and cards the evening before a mission. Divorces are a dime a dozen, so are soldiers returning for a third tour when the second could have been the last. From what Attano told him, it wasn’t ugly. ‘That’s something,’ Daud remembers saying, and perhaps he should’ve said more, but what was there? He can’t promise the man that he will see his kid again within the year. No-one can.

“So,” Jenkins interrupts his thoughts. “That’s Attano, huh.”

Daud cuts him a sharp glance. “Whatever you heard, it’s unlikely to be true. And whatever he decides to tell, stays in this room,” he says bluntly.

Going by Jenkins’ face, he may as well have threatened to cite him for insubordination. “No, sir, I know. It’s just… we’ve all heard the story. And you,” he looks at Daud, and then he swallows at the expression on Daud’s face, but then forges on, “you _went back in_. Captain told us.”

Daud grits his teeth. “No man left behind, Jenkins,” he says. “That’s bigger than Attano and me. That’s the code.”

“No man captured survives 48 hours,” Jenkins objects, and he’s gotta have seen some shit to be so Void-damned fearless now. “That’s the code, too.”

“Not ours,” Daud reminds him. Before Jenkins can argue further, he asks, “How’s Fleet, anyway?”

Jenkins grins, and it’s uncanny, Daud thinks, how her men love talking about her more than about their scars. “Still kicking ass, sir. She’s not coming home until Tyvia’s taken its fingers off of Morley.”

That, Daud can believe.

*

Daud drives himself to the gym after he’s done at St. Martin’s, then to another VA meeting on the other side of town. Not to talk, or participate, but to see if anyone else he knows has taken him up on his suggestion today. Despite what he told Attano, he doesn’t ‘haunt’ any and all meetings that he points people to. Most of those he texts used to be on his squad, or someone’s he used to know, and it’s something he _does_. ‘Always keep an eye,’ his mother taught him. It’s what he knows.

He’s still loosely affiliated with command, for whatever that’s worth, and he uses whatever contacts he has to stay on the know. It’s been five years since the Tyvian invasion, and between that and continuing skirmishes in Pandyssia, Gristol’s army has stretched itself thin. Career military like Daud are _technically_ on secondment from Serkonos, but they’d ended up never going home after the first tour. As far as he knows, Attano has lived in Gristol since childhood, as is the fate of many a military brat whose father was called away on secondment.

Gristol, it seems, is never short of enemies to pick a fight with, and one day it’s going to make this whole ‘Union of States and Isles’ go up in flames. Daud’s going to watch when it does, preferably with a glass of whiskey, an expensive cigar, and a good view of the crater left behind.

Until then, he’s got things to do that don’t involve losing sight of those he was tasked with looking out for. If anyone asks, it wasn’t him who bullied the VA treasury into giving Jenkins just enough to work with to establish the new meeting spot — and even though they eventually caved, it’s still taken Jenkins a good chunk of his own savings to keep everything up and running for the next year, at least. From then on, St. Martin’s will likely depend on donations to keep accommodating everyone, even if most of the counsellors lending a hand in Jenkins’ efforts are working pro bono.

Daud has been given a tiny office in a just as tiny outbuilding on the fringes of the military complex just outside Dunwall; and sometimes he wonders why the generals and admirals don’t just swap offices with Whitehall. They good as run the city, anyway. Centuries ago, Whitehall was called Dunwall Tower, and served to house the Emperor and Consort of the Empire of the Isles — right up until the Morley Insurrection, and the fateful beheading of the Emperor. Since then, the Empire has become a Union, fragile though it proved to be in the face of Tyvia’s ambitious bids for leadership.

In arriving at his ‘office,’ he once again consents to his continued exasperation at the antics of desk jockeys and bureaucrats, all of whom declare they want to make the lives of those fighting in the North easier, when all they accomplish is to shorten the life expectancy of informants and undercover operatives by leaking intel like a sieve. The last big data grab cost them two of their most effective agents, and everyone else embedded in Wynnedown had suffered for it, though none more than those that died. And, Daud thinks abstractly, Attano. At least those that die are gone, he thinks sometimes. The ones that come back just live with death more than their own. Getting deployed, you know your own death is on the cards. It’s everyone else’s that takes you by surprise.

“Colonel Fálaina,“ the soldier at the gate greets him, taking his ID to sign him in and then swiftly handing it back. He doesn’t raise the gate immediately, however, and instead leans down a little. “Sir,” he says, “please don’t ask me how I know, but I heard from a guy I know, who heard from a guy he knows, that they shipped back the stuff from Arran this morning. Command released everything to be archived.”

Daud lets that sink in for a moment, then nods. “Thank you, Kieron,” he says simply, and Kieron nods. Then, he signals for the gate to be raised and claps his hand on the roof of Daud’s car once as he turns towards the next car in line.

Daud drives on and pulls into the compound; like any other it’s encased in steel and barbed wire and manages to be just as grim as the temporary bases they build in Wynnedown just to have somewhere to sleep that isn’t soaked in dog urine. He sighs. He’s not an army brat, family moving any direction the wind carries them based on where the generals decide to dispatch troops next in the quest for ‘unity.’ He’s barely an honourable officer, truth be told. He’s never known his father and lost his mother young, and from dropping out of school to falling in with the wrong crowd, he was well on his way to trouble with a capital T. But then, more for luck than brains, he somehow found himself a mentor, a retired general who gave him a choice: jail, or service. At 17, Daud liked fresh air too much to take long to decide. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last.

The General’s long dead, now, but the watch he left Daud sits in his dresser, still ticking. He doesn’t wear it unless he’s in his dress blues, and he'd rather not be caught dead in them. ‘Asshole,’ the General would grate at him, and Daud would shrug, and that’d be the end of it. Sometimes he misses the old geezer.

The geezer’s daughter, shrew that she is, sent him an email when he returned from Wynnedown a month ago, reminding him she could always do with a new head of security for her import/export business. If there’s one thing Daud hates more than sentiment, it’s boats.

He enters his office and sighs, seeing the pile of mail he’d left in his in-tray the last time he was here, two days ago. There’s one at the bottom he knows is a summons — it’s neither a friendly chat, nor a hearing, but definitely something in between. He left it unopened knowing what was coming, and he’s going to come away from reading it not an inch more prepared than if he were to march into the General's office right now and demand higher compensation; but what’s the harm, he thinks. Might as well read it. 

 

 

> **DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY  
> ** Military District, Infantry Corps  
>  P.O. Box 0110-747  
>  Dunwall, D-X 28359
> 
>  
> 
> **Executive Office  
>  ** SUBJECT: Informal Hearing (Art. 35 § 4 of DA Disciplinary Code); Letter of Summons
> 
> Col. Daud Fálaina, retired  
>  Formerly of Holger Battalion, Morley Command  
>  P.O. Box 0608  
>  Military District, Dunwall, DX-28315
> 
> 23rd, Month of Harvest, 2018
> 
>  
> 
> Dear Col. Fálaina,
> 
> You are hereby required to attend an informal hearing, under Art. 35 § 4 of DA Disciplinary Code, to take part in a debriefing regarding the events taken place in Arran, MY, between the 20th and 24th Day of Songs, as part of Operation Black Sparrow (Ref. D-X 2011-55).
> 
> The committee has yet to decide whether to arraign a fully disciplinary hearing. An informal gathering of commanding officers and chiefs of staff has therefore been called to assess the actions taken by yourself and the men under your command in completing the mission.
> 
> The gathering will take place on the 19th Day of Rain, 2018, at 1100.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Hiram F. Burrows
> 
> Staff Secretary to the General

Daud reads the letter, twice, then refrains from setting fire to it and instead tucks it back into the envelope. Then, he shreds it.

He’s got enough other things to do until the hearing, and some of them include dealing with actual people — all of whom have at least one thing going for them: none of them are Staff Secretary to the General. Daud never liked Burrows.

* * *

For a while, nothing much exciting happens. Daud receives a message or three from his second in command; and Escobar’s still as much of an annoying little shit as he was when they were crouched behind front lines together. Daud doesn’t need to ask him whether he’s been invited to an informal hearing, too. What Kieron meant when he said ‘stuff’ had been shipped in from Arran, was evidence. Evidence that Daud went beyond his brief — not for the first time, on the whole, but for the first time against explicit orders. His retirement has been as much a choice as a firm recommendation — a way of getting out in front of it. He’s not sorry for it, it was his last tour, anyway.

But this time, it’d cost command intel. A man down, they could walk away from. A missed opportunity to take down one of Tyvia’s military leaders, however, was sacrilege.

It’s how Daud reckons that the men making the decisions have never been served the reality of knowing a man’s life is in their hands; not paper, but in blood running from a wound torn by a hollow point, clean through the armour. Daud did what he did in Arran out of a principle the Army cannot afford.

And now, Attano seems to think he owes him something, and Daud doesn’t have the words to explain to him that he doesn’t, or why. ‘It’s nothing personal,’ comes closest to the truth, but that’s something you after cheating at a poker game. But it wasn’t — Daud would’ve gone back for anyone on the squad that day, and he believes Attano would have, too. It’s why he doesn’t understand Attano’s so tongue-shy about it now.

Attano was a good captain, and Daud liked him well enough to drink with him, but in Daud’s experience, soldiers play cards for cigarettes, rations, and to pass the time, not to make friends. If there’s a band of brothers, Daud’s never been part of one. He has no pathetic love of country, or of anyone, to keep him going. Saving Attano has little to do with Attano; and more to do with Daud’s own conscience.

But Attano’s settling now; and all that remains for Daud to do is make sure that none of this comes back to bite them in the ass — one of them, at least.

* * *

It’s several weeks later — a few weeks before the hearing — that he’s back in his office, where he checks, out of habit, his official inbox. Most the emails he deletes without even reading them, and forwards those he deems important to his personal account. He doesn’t have the time to stay and answer them now, as he’s been called in today for another, more innocuous meeting: accounting found inconsistencies in his requisition forms. Requisitions officers, Daud has found, are either the craftiest sons of bitches he’s ever met, or the most pain in his ass in human shape there would ever be; there is no in between. Daud, in his time, has dealt with both, but the one he’d had the pleasure of serving with on both assignments in Wynnedown was a solid example of the first. If Lieutenant Holden has let a few “discrepancies” pop up, it’s to hide whatever else he’s done to keep them in food, water, and bullets, and Daud’s not about to rain on the man’s parade. 'Slackjaw,' as his squadmates call him (for no good reason Daud can discern), could get you  _anything_ on any black market in a war zone. 'Lieutenant Holden went shopping' is an explanation Daud has heard more than once; and even it usually meant that they could continue operating as normal, it also tended to bring on more than one headache.

Still, it's not the biggest of Daud's worries right now, and he goes back to his messages.

He thinks he's nearly done, but then, from two days ago, he finds a message from Sergeant Jenkins.

 

> _ Sir, _
> 
> _ Forgive me for approaching you with this, but I am unsure who else to ask. _
> 
> _ As you know, Captain Attano attended the first meeting at St. Martin’s, and he’s been a regular (and active) participant since. That is to say, until the last week of Nets. When the Captain missed one meeting, I let it go, because sometimes showing up just isn’t in the cards. When he missed a second meeting, I left him a message to ask if he’s alright, or if he’s found a different group; but I’ve had no reply. Yesterday’s is the third meeting he was absent. I’d let bygones be bygones, as no-one can be forced to accept help no matter how well-meant, but my gut tells me Attano isn’t the type to make commitments he doesn’t intend to honour. _
> 
> _ Long story short, sir, I wonder if you’ve been in contact with him? Any news at all, at least if he’s doing well, would ease my mind. _
> 
> _ Sincerely, _
> 
> _ Staff Sergeant L. Jenkins _

 

Daud forwards this one to his personal account, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) So basically.... Daud's in trouble??  
> b) me: I love making shit up. also me: looks how up the US Army formats letters and memos to get it *just right*  
> c) Basically, I'm taking canon bits and putting them wherever I like to make sense of the politics and the hows and whys of why Gristol's at war. Hope you like.  
> d) Also: I've got the main story beats all mapped out, but this is a rare example of Grumble Goes In Blind for the entire rest of it.  
> e) Since this is going full au and we can leave canon assumptions at the door, I'm taking some liberties in introducing Daud in a context other than crushing guilt. I find that very refreshing.  
> f) Almost forgot: "Lieutenant Holden went shopping" is a reference to the movie Operation Petticoat, an old-old-old movie with Cary Grant and Tony Curtis that is fucken hilarious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the Fifth Day of Earth when Corvo looks at the wall clock across froths hospital bed and realises that he missed Jessamine’s birthday. Surgeries and sedatives have kept him under, and he’s not sure he remembers any more than five minutes of the past week together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After dangling so many questions in front of you in the first chapter, here's at least some detail on what's going on in Corvo's life right now, why he can't see Emily, and why he's not been going to meetings.
> 
> Be advised: this chapter deals with the social stigma surrounding PTS and its treatment; as well as the negative self-perception and depression that come part and parcel with trauma.

It’s the Fifth Day of Earth when Corvo looks at the wall clock across from his hospital bed and realises that he missed Jessamine’s birthday. Surgeries and sedatives have kept him under, and he’s not sure he remembers any more than five minutes of the past week together.

She knows he’s here, in Dunwall’s military hospital. He knows she’s been called — she’s still listed as next of kin, in favour of ‘nobody,’ and besides, Geoff has always been a hopeless optimist — to inform her of Corvo’s capture, the injuries he sustained, and his laborious journey home. She knows it’s his final welcome: after this, he’s done, and not just his body but his career as well. Now all he wants, is to see her, and Emily; to hold them close and promise he’ll never leave again.

She’s not been to see him, yet.

It’s not cruelty that does it: she loves him still, Corvo knows. It’s what it said on the note that came with the divorce papers — and it should have made him angry, but instead it just made him weep for his own stubbornness and pathetic sense of honour. Three years later, Jessamine has her wish: he’s grounded forever.

It doesn’t stop his world from falling apart when his phone finally rings. When she explains that she and Emily moved away from Dunwall because she found a different — better — job while he was in Morley, and that her father has obtained legal provisions that prohibit Corvo from seeking shared custody until he has ‘secured a steady job, appropriate housing, and treatment,’ so the injunction reads that he receives, by letter, a week later, still at the hospital. It appears that as soon as Euhorn Kaldwin heard of what happened to him, has deduced that it will cause him trouble, and now refuses to let Corvo back into his daughter and granddaughter’s life until he’s received therapy, until he ‘understands what happened to him, and until he’s taken steps to ensure he won’t let it ruin his life.’ In other words, until he understands that he failed a country whose defence industrialists like Euhorn felt was in their hands since Gristol’s soldiers couldn’t be relied upon to do it.

*

Corvo was too tired then to be angry, and truth be told, he still is. The past two months have been spent getting back on his feet after the hospital, back to establishing a routine. He wants to be angry: at Jessamine’s father for being a coward, at the Army for their abysmal track record with giving a damn about veterans after their return to civilian life, at _everyone_ for being so damned afraid of the service members living right among them. People hear someone’s a vet and they’re a hero — but if they’re also suffering from what happened to them, if they’re angry, or lose control, suddenly they are ‘mentally unsound’ and ‘dangerous.’ Or worse: there are people who call them _weak_.

“I would’ve never denied you Emily,” Jessamine begged him to believe her on the phone that day. “I just want you to be alright. But my father… he doesn’t understand. He fears the repercussions… and he dreads other people’s remarks.”

The good days are when he can be angry about it, when it makes him want to pick up and start his recovery, just to spite everyone who doubts him and those who have lived through far worse than he.

The bad days are when he agrees, when he thinks he _shouldn’t_ have his daughter back, for fear of hurting her worse than he already has. He hadn’t been willing to seek retirement, and Jessamine hadn’t been ready to spend another seven months, twice, waiting for the call. It was a stalemate, and in the middle stood their daughter, confused and distraught over her parents’ separation just before Corvo was due to return to the war. She’d been born just before Corvo’s academy graduation and officer’s commission, and he’d stayed in Dunwall the first six years of her life, working as an engineer and training new recruits. But eventually, when the conflict with Tyvia reignited, his squad had been deployed.

He wishes he could take that day back now more than anything.

*

Corvo does what a good son should. He visits his mother’s grave on the day of her death, lays down fresh flowers and tries not to think about the pride in her eyes, warring with despair, the day he graduated from the academy. His father was all paternal pride and a little bit of bluster, knowing that his son had done so well. He approved of Corvo’s choice of best friend and second, too, the Curnows being from Serkonos as well, a good, strong military family, and Geoff an honest, dependable man. ‘Fine lads,’ Corvo remembers him saying, waiting until they were done posing for class portraits that Corvo thought he’d left behind in high school; and Paloma and Clara, his mother and Geoff’s, fighting their tears at knowing they were sending these fine lads off into a war of the devil’s making. Heaven and Void, however, are neither of them places, albeit both of them strange. What they find in combat is sand, soil burnt by mortar and brimstone.

Corvo’s father died first, of a heart attack at the age of 60, and his mother didn’t hold out much longer after that. His sister, he hasn’t seen in years: she left, and hasn’t looked back. She would’ve cut off her hand ere she join the parade, Corvo knows, and doesn’t begrudge her that. She wanted them both to run, away from this, away from the war.

‘It’s been going on forever, and it will go on forever long after we’re both dead,’ she’d told him. ‘What we do won’t matter to anyone but us, but at least it will _matter_.’

Corvo had listened, and debated, and thought about his future.

He is a good son. She didn’t begrudge him that, either. She just left without him.

*

He’s been going to meetings, the past weeks, at St. Martin’s. Tuesdays are a little easier to find among the string of days, now, as weeks roll into each other without direction. Of course, Corvo _does_ things. He goes for a run every morning, because it’s what he’s used to. He minds Emily’s photo by the door, being sure to say good morning and good night. He goes out to buy food without thinking much about it, vaguely recalling things he’s always liked; so he buys them now. He’s kept his computer from before, and he reads job listing boards until his eyes burn at 1am. He saves some of the ads, and a week later, he deletes those that have been filled or whose links have gone dead, and then reads more listings and saves new ones. There’s a file on his desktop that is neatly labelled ‘Corvo-Attano-CV.docx’ that he hasn’t touched in years.

‘Everyone needs engineers,’ his mother always used to say. His father was an engineer, his uncles and his cousins; but they were in the Army, too, and now they’re all gone. It’s an old-fashioned family, he thinks.

In meetings, he’s not shared much of himself — at the first, just his name, his regiment, his former rank and the circumstances of his honourable discharge. Not the commendations, not the details of his injuries. He doesn’t need whispers of his name following him around, although he is sure many will recognise either his name or his face, will know that he is _that_ Attano. It’s one reason for him to be grateful that Fálaina was subtle in his visit at the end of the inaugural meeting — or, some part of Corvo whispers, to scorn him for turning up at all. It’s one thing for fellow vets to know that Corvo was involved in Operation Black Sparrow; it’s another for them to believe that the colonel who nearly threw his career away to save him is now _checking up on him_. Corvo is uncertain whether Daud’s ‘retirement’ truly is just that, or whether command ‘suggested’ that he step away from active duty. He doesn’t expect it’s a question he’ll receive an answer to, and perhaps that’s why it weighs so heavily every time he remembers their encounter.

As it is, since then, Corvo has attended but spoken little and to few: to Jenkins, of course, and to one or two of the other soldiers there; but for all that they’re there because they served their country and are now cast out, on their own, and struggling to find their place, small talk is still… small talk. But perhaps the banality is what they all need, after months and months believing that the next day getting up could be the last. Corvo knows this, he’s seen this, in his father and in others. How it should now come as a surprise to see it in himself… and yet, it does. To look in the mirror and not recognise the eyes that stare back, to sink into thoughts of dark so deep that sometimes there’s no coming out. And then, on other days, every little noise is loud as gunfire, and echoes in Corvo’s head like it’s a drum.

The meetings are fine, though — and Corvo imagines saying that to someone as one would say it to one’s mother after a dull day at school. They’re _fine_. Corvo understands their purpose, and he wouldn’t go if he didn’t think they’d help. But he also knows that what he needs more is counselling, psychological and legal, if he wants to see Emily again.

He knows this.

And then, the letter arrives.

*

 

> **DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY  
> ** Military District, Infantry Corps  
>  P.O. Box 0110-747  
>  Dunwall, D-X 28359
> 
>  
> 
> **Executive Office  
>  ** SUBJECT: Informal Hearing (Art. 35 § 4 of DA Disciplinary Code); Letter of Summons
> 
> Capt. Corvo Attano, retired  
>  Formerly of Holger Battalion, Morley Command  
>  39 Finfick Lane  
>  Packing District, Dunwall, DX-28315
> 
> 23 rd , Month of Nets, 2018
> 
>  
> 
> Dear Capt. Attano,
> 
> You are hereby required to attend an informal hearing, under Art. 35 § 4 of DA Disciplinary Code, to take part in a debriefing regarding the events taken place in Arran, MY, between the 20th and 24th Day of Timber, as part of Operation Black Sparrow (Ref. D-X 2011-55).
> 
> The committee has yet to decide whether to arraign a fully disciplinary hearing. An informal gathering of commanding officers and chiefs of staff has therefore been called to assess the actions taken by yourself and the men under your command in completing the mission.
> 
> The gathering will take place on the 26th Day of Rain, 2018, at 1300.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Hiram F. Burrows
> 
> Staff Secretary to the General
> 
>  

*

Corvo reads the letter, sets it aside to attend the rest of his mail. Of course it would arrive on his birthday, not that the date is of much consequence to him now. But Geoff has made sure to call him, as have some of the others from the squad, and he has a card from Emily that Jessamine signed as well. And Corvo’s grateful, he is, and he reads Emily’s card a hundred times before he sticks it on the fridge.

But he cannot undo knowing that his actions have gotten others into trouble — if they’re citing him for a hearing, they’re citing others. Fálaina, he’s certain, has been called.

Some part of him wonders if Daud already knew when they met at St. Martin’s. He wonders a lot of things, the coming weeks — how to look him in the eye, for one thing. He said he doesn’t haunt… but what if Corvo’s the exception, if only for being such a damn pain in Daud’s ass?

So Corvo doesn’t go, to one meeting or the next, and looks into other groups he could join. But he _likes_ St. Martin’s, and it’s yet another cruel twist of fate he can blame on neither gods nor kings.

He still doesn’t go back — he ignores Jenkins’ voicemail, which becomes just another thing to feel bad about; and he ignores everything else as well. It works, for a while, but only because it’s not the guilt that scares him this time. It’s his own anger. At command, at himself. There’s rage inside him now, and he doesn’t know where it stops and the guilt begins. So he can’t go. Anywhere.

And then, one day, the doorbell rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Turns out, Corvo isn't missing. But neither is he alright :/  
> b) Yeah, Euhorn's an asshole.  
> c) I think we can all guess who's on the other side of that door??
> 
> come talk to me about these dorks on tumblr: @screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If asked later what possessed him to pull Attano’s forwarding address from the registry and to go there, without calling ahead, without any indication whatsoever he’ll be welcome — in fact, feeling quite certain he won’t be — Daud won’t have a satisfactory answer for anyone, much less himself. Nor Corvo, truth be told, although he is perhaps the one man in all this who will possess the tact not to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October is finally done, and so am I — happy Halloween, everybody. Today I bring you no bats or skelly wars, but spooky feelins instead.
> 
> Here's a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zPW5r5RTlRUFczgksaHhT_E). And here's a [cast list](https://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/179615710060/face-cast-for-whose-duty-was-fulfilled).

If asked later what possessed him to pull Attano’s forwarding address from the registry _and to go there_ , without calling ahead, without any indication whatsoever he’ll be welcome — in fact, feeling quite certain he won’t be — Daud won’t have a satisfactory answer for anyone, much less himself. Nor Corvo, truth be told, although he is perhaps the one man in all this who will possess the tact not to ask.

Still, Attano’s face when it appears in the open door is tired but, most of all, surprised. But then, the worry sets in; a familiar expression that Daud has seen too much of already, and he’s only met him once since Wynnedown.

“Colonel,” Attano says, startled back into formality. His eyes are clear, and so’s his tongue, and Daud feels relief taking a weight off his shoulders. But Attano’s hair’s a mess and he’s not dressed — it’s nearly noon. Men like him, they cope by establishing routines. Daud’s seen it, and knows it helps. There are running shoes on a small rack next to the door out in the corridor, but it’s clear Attano’s not been running anywhere today. Daud suppresses a sigh. Jenkins was right to send him looking.

“It’s Daud,” he reminds him, careful not to presume and take a step forward, but he hopes not to be left out here in the corridor for his impertinence. “Can I come in?” He keeps his hands behind his back, for now.

Attano averts his eyes. “Of course.” He moves aside, but before Daud can thank him, he says, “I know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?” Daud asks as he steps past him. Attano’s eyes are still fixed on the now empty stairwell, so he misses the bag of food Daud brings out from behind his back as he steps into the den. He waits for Corvo to close the door, and takes a quick look around. There’s a door ajar to the left, and there’s more unopened boxes in that room than anything else, but Daud can see just the edge of a bedpost. Two more doors, closed: most likely the bathroom and a closet. A long hallway leads out towards the right.

“The hearing,” Attano answers eventually, and his voice isn’t as dull as it was when Daud met him a few weeks ago.

He sounds riled, instead, and it’s _not_ a sign of recovery, but it’s a sign of something, nonetheless. Daud’s not even sure he’s seen him truly angry, yet. In Wynnedown, he’d been mostly resigned, exasperated, worried. But never furious, not even at command.

“You’ve received a letter, too. And now you’ve come to ask me their questions first.” Attano closes the door, and turns.

“What questions are those?” Daud asks, if just to keep the other man talking. He feels his own anger rising at hearing confirmed what he’s suspected: Burrows sent for Attano, too. He’s not surprised, but he will take some time later to contemplate all the ways Burrows could do with a sharp piece of metal shoved into his eye, for reasons both personal and not. Now is not the time: Attano needs him to be present, and any fury Daud displays he’ll think is directed at him. So he reminds himself not to snarl as Attano plucks a letter from a table against the wall, and holds it out to him. Daud recognises the Army’s letterhead.

“How badly I fucked up,” Attano informs him, and it’s succinct, Daud will give him that. “How did I get captured in the first place — but if I was stupid enough to get caught, why was I smart enough to survive?”

“Attano—”

“They think I turned, didn’t they?“ Attano has every right to be bitter, but instead he just sounds matter-of-fact. “And you’re here because you need to know if you risked your ass for a spy, and a traitor.”

For a solid moment, Daud can only stare at him.

“No,” he says at length. He lifts the hand that carries the food. “We can talk about the hearing later, but that’s not why I’m here. I came because Jenkins sent me.”

Attano’s expression changes abruptly at that. “What is this?” There’s suspicion in his voice, and his shoulders tense.

“You weren’t at the meetings,” Daud tells him plainly.

Attano turns on his heel, then, drops the letter, and stalks ahead. Daud follows him without much hesitation, and they end up in the living room.

“I thought you didn’t haunt,” Attano accuses, crossing his arms and using his full height to look imposing in a way that Daud might have deemed successful if not for the bedhead.

“I don’t. Jenkins emailed me to ask if I’d heard from you.”

Attano scoffs. Daud’s hackles rise, just a little. “So you bring me food?”

“That’s a peace offering, for imposing on you.“

Attano stares at him, but says nothing. Daud makes the decision for them.

“Alright. I need you to take a shower, and I need to see you eat some of this food, and then we can talk about the hearing.”

“You gonna watch me shower, too?” Attano bites out, surprising Daud.

“Do I fucking have to?” It slips out more than anything else, but it’s too late to bite his tongue. Daud goes to apologise, but Attano’s already brushed past him — shouldered him out the way, really — and is marching back down the hallway.

“Five minutes,“ Daud calls after him, and Attano makes a rather rude gesture over his shoulder. Daud knows not to take it personally.

*

Daud busies himself with the pantry while Attano’s gone. The fridge isn’t empty, thank the Void, so Attano hasn’t let everything slide. Daud doesn’t care if he’s had it delivered, at least he’s feeding himself. He told Attano five minutes — he’s going to give him six — and there’s nothing that can be cooked that fast except for a tin of soup. So he hunts down a pot and sets it on the stove, and tries not to feel like an idiot as he stands at another man’s hearth, a man he barely knows, and stirs some damn lentil soup while it heats. The living room is connected to the kitchen by a pass-through, making the room seem bigger even though it is reasonably tiny.

He checks his phone for the time, and just then Attano reappears in the doorway to the kitchen, his hair still damp and curling at the ends, in jeans and a t-shirt and wearing an impressive glare with more emphasis than his clothes. It’s better than nothing, Daud supposes.

He doesn’t waste any time before he comments, “So the subpoena got you down, huh?”

“It’s none of your business,“ Attano shoots back. Except it _is_. He moves into the living room again and, not one to be left out, Daud sets the soup to a low simmer and abandons it to its fate to follow.

“Listen to me, Attano,” Daud growls then, because he figures playing hardball is all that’s going to get him through right now. They need this out of the way, and if it’s going to take a shouting match for that to happen, so be it. Daud knows well enough that no matter what conclusion they arrive at today, Attano’s not going to stop feeling whatever mess he’s got inside his head. He’s still going to feel guilty, and he’s still going to be conflicted about the hearing and Daud’s part in the proceedings. But if Daud can at least get him to accept that he doesn’t owe him a fucking thing, he’s going to count this as a success. And his best bet, right now, is to piss him off. “We’re being brought up because I lost intel to save your ass.“

“I never asked you to!” Attano rounds on him, and _there it is_. In the field, nothing could rattle that man, something Daud admired through the months they worked together. But here, now, he’s angry and he’s afraid, Daud realises; and distantly he figures that the outcome of these hearings has got to have something to do with whatever custody arrangement his ex-wife extracted from him, as well.

So Daud decides to give him the cold, hard truth: “I don’t give a fuck what you thought I was doing while you were rotting away in that hole in the earth. I did my job, I got you out.“

“Your _job_ was to forget about me, and get the intel.” Attano’s jabbing a finger at him, and he’s angry, and Daud’s half expecting that accusing finger point to end up poking square into his chest by the end of this. He’s not going to give an inch.

“Corvo, you’re going to have to make up your mind whether you’re sore at me for losing intel, at yourself for pulling through, or guilty for getting us up shit creek with no oars. It can’t be both, and I’m telling you now, I’m not taking much more of the latter. I made a choice, and the squad backed me up. _Your_ squad backed me up. You keep looking at me like you owe me something, but you _don’t_. Here’s the shitty truth of it, ok: I didn’t do it _for_ you. Does that help? It’s nothing personal. Stop treating it like it is.“

Attano stares at him for a good long while. And then, suddenly, he deflates, at least a little.

“I never… they shipped me out too fast. I told them to send for you—“

“What for?”

Now, Attano cuts him a glance like he’s stupid. “I wanted to thank you. For saving my life. And now, to tell you I’m sorry, for,” he gestures vaguely, “getting us up shit creek.”

Daud sighs. “You have to know that that’s not your fault. Command—”

“I got captured. I fucked up the mission,” Attano interrupts, and Daud’s already shaking his head. “And now command is investigating you, and that’s on me, too.“

“Attano…”

“We lost men on that mission. All for intel that we didn’t get, because I walked into a trap. Don’t tell me what’s my fault and what’s just fate. I have no patience for fate.”

“Finally you’re talking like a soldier,” Daud says drily, but there’s no humour in it. “So that’s why you stopped going to the meetings?”

“I didn’t stop going. I _haven’t_ stopped going,” Attano insists, like it makes a difference. Daud’s always hated semantics.

“Then why didn’t you answer Jenkins’ message? Why not just tell him that you needed a break?”

“I don’t answer to him, I don’t answer to you.”

“Then who _do_ you answer to? Your gut? Your ex-wife?”

Now, Attano snarls. “Low blow, Fálaina.”

Daud damn well knows that. He’s only half sorry. “You gonna throw me out now?”

“Depends.”

Daud shakes his head again. “Don’t worry, I’m going. But I’m telling you one thing: you’re not going to that hearing.”

“I have to.“

“No, you don’t,” Daud tells him, and where he takes that certainty from, he doesn’t know. He just knows he won’t let it happen, not while Attano’s in this state. “You’re right, they are going to ask how badly you fucked up. But tell you what, they can ask _me_ first. Burrows and I go _way_ back.”

“And what are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll tell them to read your second’s damn report. He saw you get grabbed, he can do the rest.”

“That’s not fair on Curnow.”

“And who wants to bet he’s already offered?“ Daud waits, but Attano doesn’t answer. “When was the last time you talked to him?“

“Today,” Attano says, with a shrug. “It’s my—” he cuts himself off. “Never mind.”

Daud searches his face for a moment, but in the end decides it’s not important what damned day it is. “Fine, whatever. Point is, you’re not going to that hearing, but you are going back to meetings. Any meeting you want, but I know Jenkins would shit his pants with joy if you came back to St. Martin’s. He likes you.”

“You gonna make sure I do?” Attano asks him, brow drawn, and he looks more like the captain Daud’s come to know in Wynnedown than he suspects he has in a while.

“No, nothing so boring. But just imagine that there’s a belligerent asshole sitting three rows behind you, glaring at the back of your head, if it helps.” Daud turns on his heel, and realises they haven’t moved since coming out of the kitchen. Oh shit, the soup. Without waiting for Attano to reply, he makes a beeline for the stove, where the pot is still peacefully simmering. He stirs it, once, feeling like a moron, and looks over at Attano, who’s still stuck to the spot. “Eat your stew, Attano. I’ll get out of your hair.” He moves to leave, already halfway down the corridor when Attano sets off after him.

“What about the hearing?”

“Just text me after the meeting.”

“Oh, so you’ll only keep me in the loop if I go?” Attano says sarcastically.

Daud turns at the door.

“Yeah.”

And with that, he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) tfw you realise Corvo’s apartment has the same layout as your mum’s  
> b) Daud, you won’t be surprised to learn, put all his points in charisma and being a dick  
> c) and I'm STILL not telling you what happened in Wynnedown  
> d) Corvo flipping Daud off over his shoulder gives me life (no regrets)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud is aware of Corvo’s guilt, keenly so, apparently, and Corvo has barely had any time to come to grips with that before Daud pulled the rug out from under his feet by declaring it void. It’s what he’s feared, isn’t it? If Daud knows he’s feeling guilty for what happened, it’s because he has reason to, Corvo thinks, and then throws his hands in the air much like Daud did. No, he reminds himself, it’s just as likely that Daud read it in his face when they met at St. Martin’s; the way he was carrying on seemed to say that Corvo was plenty obvious about it. He supposes he’s never been all that good at wearing a mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello here's more soldiers with feelings

As the door closes behind Daud, and Corvo realises he’s been left alone, again, with his thoughts and a pot full of what smells a lot like lentil stew, his mind’s starting to catch up on what just happened. It can’t have been more than twenty minutes, all in all, and in that time Fálaina has managed to make him disgusting soup, piss him off enough to actually want to punch him, and make him a promise he can’t possibly intend — or be able to — keep. They’re going to have to talk about the hearings; and as little as Corvo likes calling it ‘getting their stories straight,’ that’s precisely what it’s going to have to be. He wonders if Daud will tell him the parts he doesn’t remember. He wonders whether he truly wants to know.

If there’s one thing his anger, lingering as it is, serves, perhaps it’s his determination. He _wants_ to go back to meetings, and now he has one more reason to. It should fill him with shame that all the other reasons haven’t been enough in recent weeks — that _Emily_ hasn’t been enough, the thought of her constant and ever present in his mind. But he’d been scared of his own fury, scared it might escape him, break out of him. Scared it might hurt others. Not even Fálaina would have been able to keep that quiet, and had the news reached Jessamine's father's ears, Corvo would have been done for. Burrows probably would’ve called Euhorn himself. And now, even as Daud's callous answer makes him grit his teeth, he feels as though, even if there's no bluff to call, Daud's doing it all for a reason. He has to, if he’s to trust Daud any farther than he can throw him.

But it’s useless speculating now. He didn’t snap, albeit not for lack of Daud testing his control. As though drawn like a moth to a flame, his thoughts finally turn to the true subject of their conversation.

Daud is aware of Corvo’s guilt, keenly so, apparently, and Corvo has barely had any time to come to grips with that before Daud pulled the rug out from under his feet by declaring it void. It’s what he’s feared, isn’t it? If Daud knows he’s feeling guilty for what happened, it’s because he has reason to, Corvo thinks, and then throws his hands in the air much like Daud did. No, he reminds himself, it’s just as likely that Daud read it in his face when they met at St. Martin’s; the way he was carrying on seemed to say that Corvo was plenty obvious about it. He supposes he’s never been all that good at wearing a mask.

*

He doesn’t hear from Daud during the days after his visit, and Corvo knows he’ll keep his word and won’t be at the next meeting at St. Martin’s, either.

Once again, it’s Tuesday.

Corvo wakes at 5am, half an hour before his alarm goes off. He decides to go running, for the first time in a week. For the first time in a week, it’s not the dreams that wake him. He just can’t sleep. Over a decade in the Army should’ve cured him of any nerves — the bells and whistles that come with being green and not knowing what to expect in combat. This, today, isn’t combat. It’s just hard.

Apologising will be, if Jenkins will permit him to get as far as to say the words. He might not. Chances are he won’t and Corvo will do his best to apologise anyway, for what it’s worth. He can’t make Daud the arbiter of what warrants an apology, Corvo thinks, or he’ll never say the word ‘sorry’ again in his life.

He knows he’s being unfair, here, as he laces up his running shoes and pats his pockets for his keys. But it’s easier to cast Daud in an unfavourable light, as long as the light isn’t shining right in Corvo’s eyes because he’s looking at him and expecting an answer to his sardonically arched brow. In Wynnedown, that seemed to be the one and only facial expression Daud had — besides a quite impressive scowl, usually directed at his second, Escobar, who would toss back a sunny smile and proclaim that it was a beautiful day for killing Tyvians. Corvo had been resolved not to like him and had never managed to hold that vow, Escobar’s disposition strangely infectious — it had never seemed just a distraction. Geoff, on the other hand, had mastered his own dislike — the two had sniped at each other during every single mission, first minute to the last.

“Damn screwball comedy back there,” Daud had grumbled once during an evac, Curnow and Escobar bickering in the backseats of the IMV, and Corvo had wisely not said a word in return, lest Geoff overhear and give him Void for it later.

There are things he has to do, now. He has to go back to meetings, he has to look into counselling and therapy, and he has to, somehow, get through the hearing. He has to contain the damage to his name and, if he can, to Daud’s. And then, once this is done, he’s going to do what Jessamine invited him to do the day she called him at the hospital: to call her, whenever he’s ready, to talk about Emily. About how to get his daughter back.

He signed up to serve, and now he’s ready to receive Gristol’s gratitude. Whatever form that takes.

*

‘Shit his pants with joy,’ Daud predicted when he told Corvo to return to St. Martin’s, and as he stands outside the imposing, red brick cathedral, he wonders at himself for following orders, yet again. Well, it wasn’t an order. With orders and chain of command, the only incentive is to obey, it is reward and purpose onto itself. Daud’s dangling a carrot before his nose, but he isn’t toying with the stick in the other hand. If Corvo doesn’t do as he’s told, he expects Daud will be disappointed, but not surprised, and he certainly will not come to chase Corvo in through the door if he turns on his heel now.

Corvo goes inside.

“Corvo!” It’s Jenkins’ voice that greets him, from the doorway of the assembly room that the meetings are held in. “It’s good to see you.” He approaches him, smiling — knows better than to presume to hug him or even clap him on the shoulder, but he does extend his hand for Corvo to shake with an air that speaks of familiarity rather than manners. “How’s it going?”

It’s to his credit that he doesn’t mention that he sent Daud after him, or that he was worried at all. Corvo’s still of two minds about the intrusion. Jenkins has shown that he does, indeed, give a fuck about the people in the VA, and that these meetings are what they’re proclaimed to be: a support group. On the other hand, asking Daud to check on him was both the smart thing to do and a vast invasion of Corvo’s privacy — and Daud’s, truth be told. He didn’t ask to be saddled with Corvo, and although he very likely would’ve turned up on his doorstep in any case, because of the hearing and because that seems to be the sort of man Daud is, he cannot be expected to babysit Corvo all through this, much less his recovery.

None of these are things Corvo can tell Jenkins while standing in an old church doorway, however, and so he holds his tongue, except to say: “Good, Jenkins, thank you.” He shakes Jenkins’ hand, and glances over his shoulder into the room. There’s a number of people already there, most of whom Corvo recognises, but there are a few new faces as well.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Jenkins says then. “Go and introduce yourself, I’ll go and make some more coffee.”

Corvo’s reluctance to introduce himself to anyone nearly makes him reflexively offer his help; but instead he says what he came here to say before Jenkins can decide it’s not worth the bother. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly before Jenkins can move past him. “For not answering your call.“

Jenkins stops, and blinks, and then he vigorously shakes his head and Corvo _knew it_. “No, no, Corvo! It’s fine, hey. I don’t need an explanation, I’m just glad you’re alright. You’re back!” His grin is almost contagious. “Please, go inside.”

Corvo nods, once, in acknowledgement, and he lets Jenkins pass as he enters the room.

“Corvo,” he’s surprised to hear his name called as soon as he’s inside. A woman he remembers from the first few meetings greets him from the table where the coffee’s set up, waving at him. “How are ya?”

She speaks with a deep Morlish accent — Fraeport, he thinks — and he notes she doesn’t ask him how he’s _been_. Kat, he belatedly remembers her name, and walks over towards her.

“I’m good,” he says, “and yourself?” He puts his hands in his trouser pockets because he doesn’t know where else to put them; but if she can read his uncertainty for what it is, she doesn’t let on. It’s not discomfort, so much as surprise that anyone’s taken note of his presence — or absence.

She nods, and stirs sugar into her coffee. “Been sitting my neighbour’s cat all weekend, so really I’ve seen more crap than I’d have liked, but it’s alright,” she tells him, sounding chipper as anything. “To be fair, I only did it because she’s cute — the neighbour, not the cat. The cat’s an asshole.“

Corvo shakes his head, almost smiling now. Over the past couple weeks of barely speaking to anybody but the cashiers at the bodega on the corner, he’s forgotten how much amusement there can be in people’s idiosyncrasies. But there’s something holding him back, still, and he thinks Kat might know what that’s like when she sends him a sidelong glance. He doesn’t answer, and perhaps that’s when she decides he doesn’t have to.

“We’ve got a counsellor coming in today,” she tells him. “To talk about treatment options for those who’re looking into it. Which… I guess is everybody,” she says, and even her smile turns somewhat brittle now. “You were in Wynnedown, right?”

“Yeah,” Corvo nods. “Yeah, I was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) so Daud's done a gamble, and it might even be paying off....  
> b) invented Kat on the spot, and I like her  
> c) also: so here's a setup for Corvo and Daud to see more of each other..... *twiddles thumbs*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s seen men hit rock bottom, and Attano isn’t there yet.
> 
> As he said. It’s nothing personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realised it's been a while since I updated this, and then found half a chapter lying around... now it's time to go to bed :'D

Daud leaves Attano’s apartment, feeling half accomplished and half like a fool. Nothing undercuts an argument — between soldiers or any two men — quite like a steaming pot of stew; and it’s one more reminder that as much as he likes to ‘keep an eye,’ he’s not half cut out for the actual task of dealing with people and their needs — beyond requisition forms and ammo — as much as he should. Every officer’s promotion he’s ever received came at the cost of one more evaluation that noted his ‘bedside manner’ as abrasive and challenging, and his attitude in dealing with subordinates as ‘tough, but fair,’ which in the Army told anyone who deigned to read between the lines that Daud’s an asshole, but he knows how to lead. In the Army, that’s enough to be responsible for the survival — and, ultimately, the welfare — of a couple hundred men, over the course of half a dozen tours.

And now, he’s made Attano lentil soup and left him alone with it, to eat or throw against the wall; and he’s not sure if he’s staked the gamble too high this time. When Attano gave in half-way through, accepted Daud’s words as the truth even if he’s not going to agree with them for now or ever, Daud decided to make it clear that he does not want gratitude or a debt repaid, but that he does expect _something_ from Corvo. He’s set a challenge he’s sure enough the man can meet, and he’s not done it gladly — it’s half a lie to begin with. If Attano doesn’t text him, then Daud will be back next week, with pea soup he knows Attano _hates_ from more than one meal in the officer’s mess while waiting for the orders to come down from Dunwall. But if the man’s so determined to prove him wrong, then this is how he can do it. Daud hopes to play on his sense of duty, not his fear; but he’ll take the bad with the good if it gets Attano out of the house. He’s seen men hit rock bottom, and Attano isn’t there yet.

As he said. It’s nothing personal.

*

**THE BOLDEST MEASURES ARE THE SAFEST**

Daud grinds his teeth as he drives past the billboards courting citizens’ favour in the upcoming elections. In the wake of the invasion, calls have arisen for stricter border controls, for greater oversight of migrant workers and an end to nomadic labour. And in the midst of all that, political scandal after scandal. Gristol’s democracy is yet young — the Union itself is barely through puberty, if one wants to put it in those terms. The papers have been calling Burrows ‘kingmaker,’ which Daud would name ridiculous, if the most — and only — inaccurate thing about it not that there were no more kings to crown. It was clear which candidate was enjoying the backing of the military and the intelligence community, if one could call it that without bursting out laughing. And Burrows has always been a sniveling rat. He is no general or admiral, he is a politician to the bone; a man who would have been well at home at the Emperor’s Court two hundred years ago. To spin webs of lies and deceit, to whisper lies and slip honey or poison into the right ears. Burrows likes to hide behind committees and special ops budgets; likes to stay in the shadows and render his will upon the world. He would be one of those pompous pricks to tell soldiers who'd gone out to die on operations he'd planned that the pen is mightier than the sword. And that's as may be, but whatever gold-tipped pen Burrows uses to sign the death warrants of those he sends out into the cold, it has nothing on a mortar round to the face.

He shakes off these thoughts before he can find himself saddled with a case of impotent rage at the system they more or less wittingly serve. Many soldiers do fall prey to the call of past imperial glory, and it’s what they’re warned about by generals and admirals who will happily sit for _hours_ and reminisce, expounding tales both lived and handed down from CO to grunt in the pursuit of passing on battlefield wisdom. Daud, in his time, has heard countless stories about the Morley Insurrection from men who could not be accused of being historians. The end of the Empire had been swiftly followed by the founding of the Union and, so leaders had hoped, the cessation of hostilities between the incumbent nations. Naturally, things were never quite that easy, and between Pandyssia’s fight for independence from the Empire’s commonwealth under Gristolian colonial rule and struggling to keep the peace with Serkonos’ mutinous republic, Gristol has been paying for its heretofore dominant economic and political position dearly.

Peace with Serkonos was eventually achieved — Corvo and Daud’s own presence in Dunwall is simple testament to the fact — and accords were struck to pull together the Isles’ military powers, but the People’s Chamber of Tyvia held well-documented disdain for the industrial advancements made in Gristol, and the power taken on by corporations and their middlemen eventually led to a near collapse of the Union. Along with a declaration of war, Tyvia delivered to Whitehall the head of Tyvia’s Ambassador to Dunwall, Georgy Zhukov, accusing him posthumously of spying for Gristol’s government. The Gristolian embassy in Dabokva had long been ransacked by then.

‘The boldest measures are the safest,’ Daud repeats the new motto to himself, and shakes his head again. With Pandyssia still struggling, and Morley burning up in the wake of the Tyvian invasion, the escalation of a cold war between its neighbouring states that had gone on longer than their parents had been alive, Daud is now less in need of proof than ever that the boldest measures only ever serve those who prescribe them. Certainly not those who have to carry out those orders — the Dunwall Metropolitan Police, a far cry from its beginnings as Dunwall City Watch as it was known during imperial reign, has been faced with more and more frequent charges of brutality and escalating behaviour, especially during protest rallies against the war effort. President Morgengaard has backed the Chief of Police, Ramsey, and even rumours that he engineered a cover-up of an investigation into claims of corruption can’t be said to have done serious damage to his approval ratings. Then again, Daud isn’t sure who’s running those polls, either.

*

“Sir,” Escobar greets him when Daud arrives at the compound, surprising him. “Been waiting for half an hour.”

Daud checks his watch, and swears. Talking to Corvo took longer than he planned for, and traffic from that side of town was a bitch. Of course, anyone else, he would tell to plan for it, and be damn well on time.

Rinaldo’s drawn a brow at his reaction, and Daud remembers to shrug.

“Had to run an errand. I’ve _not_ forgotten our meeting,” he tells him pointedly, jerking his chin towards the elevators. He uses his security pass to wave them both through, and the desk sergeant looks suitably intimidated to restore Daud’s equilibrium. On the way upstairs, he shoots Rinaldo a quizzical glance. “You reenlisting?”

“What else am I gonna do?“ Rinaldo asks him, and Daud can’t quite tell if it’s genuine. What it is, however, is far from Escobar’s usually chipper demeanour. He wonders if there’s trouble at home again, but it’s not his place to ask. “I can’t be a desk jockey. And I sure as Void can’t do anything else.”

“So go back to school,” Daud finds himself saying, earning himself a look that’s closer to incredulous than resigned, at least. “Learn a trade. You’re young enough.”

“As opposed to you, old man?” Rinaldo hazards, and he’s about the only one who would dare call him that — and still only out of earshot from others.

Daud shrugs. “I’m done. I do what I can with the skills I have.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Rinaldo presses, because of course he does.

“Herding cats,” Daud shoots back without missing a beat. He’s old, not stupid enough to be caught out by his lieutenant. Rinaldo makes a face that says, ‘fair enough,’ and Daud considers the point won.

“So what was the errand?“ he’s promptly disabused of the notion, and has to swallow an impatient grunt. “Must have been important.”

“Remind me, Escobar, who keeps my diary — you or me?” Daud says just as the lift doors open. He steps out ahead of Rinaldo, expecting him to keep up. He hasn’t been up here yet, in Daud’s tiny, tiny office.

“Alright,” Rinaldo says lightly, and Daud imagines he’s shrugging. “But you’re squinting. Just saying.”

Daud doesn’t dignify that particular fishing expedition with a reply, instead digs out his keys. Behind him, Rinaldo’s gone quiet and stays that way the rest of the way down the corridor.

*

For all that Escobar’s a damned pain in his ass, he’s got a good head on his shoulders — and, more importantly, he’s got connections that rival Daud’s own, never mind that he’s ten years younger. His first CO, coincidentally, had been Fleet’s father, and it shows; not least in the way he calls Fleet ‘sis’ whenever they meet, absolutely driving her up the wall and, frankly, reducing Rinaldo’s life expectancy each time.

Daud has called him in because what he means to do requires pulling some strings; and whatever boon there is to grant will not come cheap. Daud needs someone who can pull those strings, and there’s only one person he knows with the clout and the balls to go up against Burrows and win, and, crucially, with the expertise he needs. And he needs Rinaldo to open one of the doors on the way.

“You sure you wanna do this, sir?“ he’s asking him now, sitting in the chair across from Daud. Daud’s told him only the bare bones of the situation; and that’s practically already too much. He had to mention Attano, for one thing, and the hearings, not that word hasn’t travelled fast and far enough in these quarters. “I can get you in the door, but that’s it. And you’ve already gone to bat for the guy in the first place, you gotta know you’re on her shit list.”

“She’s not that scary, lieutenant,” Daud says.

“No, she’s just the wicked witch of the DSB,” Escobar cites her damned nickname, and Daud glowers at him.

“She’s part of the committee, and she has more than enough reason not to want to acknowledge that a lowly soldier managed what her supposedly highly trained operatives couldn’t.”

“You saying Attano didn’t talk? Sir,” Rinaldo lifts his hands. “Come on. They had him for two days. The drugs they use… he talked, and then they left him to die. He only survived because of you.”

“Then why is Wynnedown still standing?” Daud returns, skimming over that last remark.

“Sir… what they wanted from him was intel, which they likely got. It’s not on us to wonder why they haven’t acted on it yet,” Rinaldo says.

Daud shakes his head.

“Unless you’re worried he’ll crack under cross examination,” Rinaldo adds. “Are you?“

“Crack?” Daud asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Wouldn’t be the first.”

That, Daud can’t deny. But there’s one thing he knows, too: Attano deserves better. Any soldier does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Rinaldoooooooooo.  
> b) A witch, you say??


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the meeting, Corvo bids goodbye to Kat, who sat down next to him when the meeting started and has been entertaining him with a running commentary on the apparent eccentricities of Anton Sokolov, the distinguished — and abrasive — chief consultant the Army has tasked with ‘looking after’ returning veterans. It’s clear that Sokolov is more interested in the neurological effects of torture than healing the scars on all their souls. As such, he as good as promised that, were they to choose a therapist from within the department, they would not take their sessions with him. He had brought with him three others: Piero Joplin, Alexandria Hypatia, and Sandi Toksvig. All three looked far more approachable than their department head, and were more soft spoken, too. Corvo’s not sure whether that’s a requirement these days, but he imagines that it helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh — happy new year, kids! When I dug this up again just now, I was aghast to find that I hadn't updated it since December; oh boy oh boy oh boy. Not that I've been lazy since then, but the boys sure are taking their time on this one ;)
> 
> Today: meetings, and people, and naps. Not necessarily in that order.

After the meeting, Corvo bids goodbye to Kat, who sat down next to him when the meeting started and has been entertaining him with a running commentary on the apparent eccentricities of Anton Sokolov, the distinguished — and abrasive — chief consultant the Army has tasked with ‘looking after’ returning veterans. It’s clear that Sokolov is more interested in the neurological effects of torture than healing the scars on all their souls. As such, he as good as promised that, were they to choose a therapist from within the department, they would not take their sessions with him. He had brought with him three others: Piero Joplin, Alexandria Hypatia, and Sandi Toksvig. All three looked far more approachable than their department head, and were more soft spoken, too. Corvo’s not sure whether that’s a requirement these days, but he imagines that it helps.

“See you next week?” asks Kat, a hopeful smile on her face as he stands up. “I’m cat-sitting again this weekend.”

Corvo feels exhausted, if not drained, by an hour of listening and mentally opening himself to the possibility of accepting outside help; but he finds it in himself to smile.

“More trying to impress the neighbour with your crap-handling abilities?” he manages, and finds her grinning back at him, pleased at the joke, even if it is half of a jab and not _particularly_ witty.

“Aye,” she says, “if I can manage it. You can be the judge.”

Corvo nods.

“See you next week,” he waves at her.

He’s barely through the church’s doors when his phone buzzes; and for a nonsensical moment he thinks Daud may have been hiding in the shadows after all, watching and deciding to torment Corvo the minute he can be sure his challenge has been met. But then Corvo shakes the thought: it’s not that he doesn’t trust Daud to stoop low enough to make sure is demands are fulfilled — for a demand it was, when he decreed Corvo attend the meetings. He may have rejected Corvo’s insistence that there stands a debt between them, but Corvo is aware enough that Daud’s own prospects at least partially depended on Corvo’s conduct and assessment. No matter that he _promised_ that Corvo wouldn’t have to go before a committee before he was ready, there is still enough weight there for them to tie a rock to Daud’s feet and watch him sink — and to make Corvo watch with them. The world is cruel enough to do it. Nonetheless, he’s half certain that Daud’s assertion that he’d only keep him in the loop if he returned to meetings — any meetings — was a bluff.

And still, he went. And still, his first thought at feeling his phone buzz in his pocket on the hour is Daud. He’s going to call him later. For now, he decides, he needs lunch.

*

Daud picks up on the second ring — it surprises him, when perhaps it shouldn’t. It was just he expected him to be _busy_. From what Daud said at the first meeting Corvo went to, he inferred that he still in some way works for Headquarters, and that he has retained enough of his connections there not to be hung out to dry just yet.

“Attano,” Daud’s rough voice greets him, with some measure of smugness that Corvo will do his best to be dignified and _overlook_.

“Daud,” Corvo returns, just once intent to get him on the back foot, even with something as trifling as this; after one too many reprimand not to call him ‘Colonel Fálaina.’ And indeed, the line is quiet for a mere moment, and the corners of Corvo’s mouth quirk at even such a small victory.

“There, there, you’ve had your fun.” Daud is quick on the uptake, he’ll give him that; but it’s not quite enough to deter Corvo from feeling just a hint of vindication. “I assume you’ve called to collect your prize.”

“If one can call it that,” Corvo says sarcastically as he unlocks the door to his apartment.

“Mmh,” Daud hums down the line, in that somewhat grumpy way Corvo has come to know but his mind still won’t associate with Dunwall at all but instead takes him straight back to Wynnedown; to maps of enemy territory weighed down with stacks of reports and an ashtray no-one ever seems to use but Daud. “I’ve not been sitting on my ass since then, either.“

“So you have news?” Corvo ventures, turning as he closes the door and touching a fingertip to Emily’s photo in greeting.

“Perhaps. Do you have time tomorrow afternoon? I’m at HQ, and although I’m on a private line it’s not my favourite place to talk — and I’m assuming, not your favourite place to meet.”

“No,” Corvo agrees. “Where?”

“Last time I kicked down your door, now it’s your turn,” Daud states gruffly. Then, “Unless you’d rather somewhere public?”

It’s a simple question, bluntly put. Daud doesn’t mean anything by it except the obvious and plain, which is why Corvo does not take it as either an insult or an indulgence. It’s an honest question of preference.

“Your place is fine,” Corvo agrees.

“It’s about as chic as yours,“ Daud says, some humour returning. “Three o’clock?”

“Fine.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

“Thanks.”

They say their goodbyes, and a moment later, Daud has hung up. Corvo puts down his phone and leaves it on the kitchen counter, then puts the rest of his lunch in the fridge. It would be too easy to say that what he feels is curiosity — perhaps he does; but it’s less about Daud’s home decor than what difference there might be (or Corvo thinks there will be) in their circumstances. He knows his own place looks barely lived in — it does not look much like a home. Is Daud different? Has he adjusted more successfully to civilian life, even if he has the taste of a butcher?

*

Daud does send him the address later that afternoon, and Corvo wonders whether he ought to be surprised to find him in the old Financial District. Rudshore had used to be where money went to grow, but a catastrophic flood over a century ago had sent the quarter into ruin — at least temporarily. For a long time, it had remained derelict, the bankers’ operations moved to different parts of the city; but eventually investors had, between the wars and conflicts, bought everything up and restored the district. Now, the river has remained contained for over fifty years, and there are living entire generations of families who do not remember the area looking any different. There were plenty of expensive houses out there, but the city had built affordable apartment complexes as well, to cope with the steady flow of new citizens. Daud had never boasted of a rich family, so Corvo would have assumed to find him in the latter even without having the exact address. But now he does — and the specification ‘Apartment 11C’ is telling enough.

Kicking down the door, Daud called it — this time, Corvo will be expected, so it’s probably necessary to go shopping beforehand, he thinks with a touch of amusement. Daud had brought him groceries for a day or two, which had been unnecessary, in the end, but Corvo appreciated the gesture nonetheless, once he’d stopped being angry at the intrusion. He should return the favour, if just out of principle. In Serkonos, you never accepted an invitation without one of your own on the tip of your tongue; and Corvo had been brought up on the old ways, even if Dunwall has never had any use for such courtesies.

He’ll pick up something on the way, then, much as he’s done for himself today. He remembers something about Daud liking bloodox stew well enough — it’s a sight nicer than lentil soup, too. He wonders at himself for calling it payback, and it isn’t, really. He’s a mess, has been one for a while now, and Daud’s challenge got him out of the house, as intended. It’s Daud who’s doing the heavy lifting for them both at the moment, and Corvo’s loathe to consider the kind of favours this might cost him, if he pulls it off. He says Corvo doesn’t owe him anything, but that won’t be true. If Daud can postpone the hearings, or at least Corvo’s, then Corvo owes him cleaning up his act, and making the best of it when the committee does come knocking. Eventually, he will have to stand up for his actions — and failures — in Wynnedown.

*

The next day comes quickly, the evening before filled with more job postings that Corvo might or might not be overqualified for. He’s an engineer, of course, but the thought of being responsible for anything or anyone more than himself scares him, at least for now. It’s still difficult, and strange, to imagine himself doing a civilian job doing ordinary things. At the same time, there’s the lure of the mundane: not to have to worry, all the time. It’s what war does, he’s realised; it pushes everyone it sweeps up in the eye of the storm into a frenzy, and makes it so they barely notice the adrenaline anymore, the stress, the fatigue. Their new normal would kill anyone else, and those who come out of it, those who get to go home, do not understand the world around them anymore. He tries to imagine working at the bodega, or in an office, and it’s incomprehensible. He’s got a feeling it shouldn’t be, that it should be what he _wants_. But he doesn’t know how to. Perhaps, one day, he will wake up and not know anymore what it means to fear that not all of his people will return to base that night. Perhaps one day he will ask himself how he ever did.

But today is not that day.

Today, he leaves his house at around 12 o’clock, as he estimates it will take him about half an hour to get to Daud’s place, and they settled on early afternoon. There’s enough time for him to pick up some lunch and do some entirely unnecessary math in his head to see whether the Circle or the District Line serves his purpose best at this time of day. It’s colder out than it’s been, and he tugs his scarf up a little higher. His hair’s long enough now that it’s sticking to his neck, but he’s loathe to let the cold air in. He’ll suffer through it, and then backhand Daud with the flying ends of his scarf, he decides.

The building complex Daud lives in is tall and wide — much unlike the man himself, Corvo thinks with an involuntary grin; but he sobers when he remembers _why_ he’s here in the first place. He squares his shoulders and marches up to the front door of Number 15. At least this building’s secure enough that residents need a key code to pass through, he notes as he presses the bell sign that simply reads ‘D. Fálaina’ in printed letters. He waits.

“Yeah?” Daud’s voice is made even rougher by the crackle of the intercom; reminding Corvo of missions with such shoddy equipment they could barely hear themselves over the noise on their comms. He can hear the annoyance coming through clear as a bell, however, and frowns.

“It’s Attano.”

“Outsider’s eyes, this is what you call early afternoon?” Before Corvo can reply, the door buzzes. “Come up. Take the elevator on the left, the right one likes to get stuck.“

Following Daud’s advice, Corvo makes his way up to the eleventh floor. He’s about to turn around to look for apartment C when the door right to the left of the lift opens. Daud appears in the doorway, looking at him darkly.

“Did I interrupt something?” Corvo asks, deliberately polite.

Daud’s brow darkens further. “Can’t let an old man finish his nap, can you?“ He turns and leaves Corvo to follow him into the apartment.

For a moment, Corvo stands rooted on the spot; but then jolts and lurches into action and adjusts his grip on the bag of food before he starts to walk. He closes the door behind himself and wonders, briefly, whether he should take off his shoes. It’s not custom in Gristol, and Daud didn’t when he came to see him, but again the old ways rear their head. Corvo weighs the cost — do insurance salesmen take off their shoes? No, he decides, and keeps walking on down the hall. He’s not a guest, here. He’s an insurance salesman.

The apartment is indeed sparse, roughly furnished, but then Corvo spots the sofa and a small pile of blankets that Daud must have had his nap bundled into, and he sets to wondering when, if ever, he’s last had a nap on his own couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Daud.... had a nap...........  
> b) to quote littleleotas, "boys, this is a very silly way of setting up a date," and I must agree  
> c) my fave thing about this is that you lot love Kat so much <3 will she yet romance her cute neighbour with the asshole cat :eyes: stay tuned!  
> d) Corvo: one day i'll figure out my feelins. but today is not that day!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Transparent, Attano,” he drawls even as he stretches out a hand to take the bag off him. Corvo complies, sufficiently distracted, and only belatedly realises the content of Daud’s accusation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uuuuuhhhh it's been a hot minute, I realise, but good things come to those who wait, right? :'D

Corvo got there earlier than Daud had imagined he would — which, he supposes, just means he doesn’t have a very vivid imagination. He can’t help but be pleased that Corvo’s brought food. He skipped breakfast that morning, which he tries not to do and still finds himself forgetting, and now he’s accidentally starving after his nap. Nevertheless, he’s not stupid enough not to sniff out that Corvo does it to return the favour — a fancier way of saying ‘repay the debt’ — and so he scowls when he finds Corvo staring at the couch.

In his haste to get up, he hasn’t tidied the blankets away; too busy smoothing down his hair as he headed for the door. He knows it’s a right mess when he wakes, flattened against the armrest and a cushion, and he doesn’t like people seeing him out of order. Not that he’s ever given a flying fuck what his hair looks like after tossing off a helmet or during combat; shit, he’s not Rinaldo. But in dress and at the base, he makes himself presentable. And habits, well. They stick.

“Transparent, Attano,” he drawls even as he stretches out a hand to take the bag off him. Corvo complies, sufficiently distracted, and only belatedly realises the content of Daud’s accusation.

“It’s just good manners,” he returns, his frown deep enough for Daud to believe him — mostly. He lets it slide, because he smells Serkonan spices; and going by the fact that he can also feed the heat coming off the containers, Corvo either knows or has just found out about the _fiambres_ two blocks away. If he’s known, that tells Daud something about him, and if it turns out that he’s done research before coming to Daud’s neighbourhood, that tells him something else. Either Corvo wants to play on their shared heritage — a simple ploy, but in most soldiers (most men), an effective one — or he seeks to ingratiate himself with Daud specifically for knowing, from one of their chats across maps and Daud’s cigarette smoke curling between them, that Daud does not consider anything Gristol has to offer _cooking_. Much less cuisine.

Daud doesn’t like to be seen as a snob. He likes acting as creditor even less. But it’s decent food, and a good meal, so he lets it slide.

He doesn’t have what could be construed for a dinner table, but the kitchen counter will do. If the apartment hadn’t come with two chairs in either side, he wouldn’t have bought that many, but there they are now and at least today they’ll be of use. Usually, it’s Rinaldo who drapes himself across two of them at the same time because he’s never heard of manners — incidentally, that’s why Daud usually prefers to meet him at HQ, when necessary. It’s _been_ necessary in the past few weeks. He can scarcely believe himself: going to meet the wicked witch had not been on his list of priorities when he somehow got out of Wynnedown alive, and decided that it would be his last deployment. But he’d done it, and Rinaldo, for all his occasional prankster machismo and impish grinning, had opened a few of those doors for him.

And now, he’d have to tell Corvo, and be drawn and quartered for his sins. Or, at the very least, be stared at by a very lost puppy.

“Sit,” he says to Corvo now, gesturing at one of the chairs. He’s already busy assembling cutlery and a set of plates, and by the time Corvo settles himself across from him, he’s extracted the food boxes from the bag and opened them. _Sorropotún — now that is cheating_ , Daud thinks to himself. There’s containers with fish soup, too, but not eel or hagfish or whatever else flops around in miserable Gristol waters, and Daud wonders if Corvo is one of those people who just _remembers_ every single little thing people tell him, just on the off chance he’ll one day need it to be polite.

“So tell me,” Corvo begins as they start sorting out their rations, accepting a plate from Daud and reaching for the cutlery with the other hand, “what have you found out?”

He does not ask what Daud has _accomplished_ , and to be fair, if Daud were him, he wouldn’t have asked that, either. It is better not to let hopes run away with the rest of you, because those little bastards might have short legs, but they’re fast. And he needs to eat, if those are the metaphors he’s stringing up today.

“I’ve had an audience,” he answers, snapping the lid off the soup and focusing entirely too much on it, “with Vera Moray.” He doesn’t mean to look up, but then Corvo drops his fork with a clatter, and he has to, if just to make sure the man hasn’t broken the plate. It isn’t, perhaps, the most graceful way of broaching the subject, but what else is he to do? He’s not here to tell Corvo a fairy tale.

“I didn’t know you knew her,” Corvo says roughly after a good five seconds of staring, then gathering up his fork.

The plate is fine.

“I don’t, not personally,” Daud tells him plainly and with a shrug. “I had help.” That won’t help, he knows, letting Corvo know that there are now other people who have pulled strings — cashed in favour they might have used to their own advantage otherwise — for him. But again: not a fairy tale.

“From whom?” Corvo asks, predictably, and Daud just barely holds in the scoff of amusement.

“That’s not important,” he says, testing the _ttoro_.

“That’s up to me, I think,” Corvo returns, somewhat testily, and Daud’s hackles attempt to rise before he can take a deep breath on the heels of a mouthful of excellent soup.

“Escobar,” he gives up the info — embarrassingly fast, but no matter. It’s not worth the argument, and Corvo’s liable to go digging and find out on his own, anyway. And before Corvo can pry further, he continues, “she’s the only member of the committee longer serving than Burrows himself. If anyone’s got the kind of pull we—I needed for this, it was her.”

“What kind of _pull_ ,” Corvo demands.

“The purpose of the hearings is to determine whether the Tyvians managed to turn you — _before_ they took you.” Daud lets Corvo have that thought for a moment. “They’re less concerned with how you survived the poison than with how you got there in the first place. To them, all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best solution, and the simplest solution is that the Tyvians _let_ you survive it. I barely factor into it.“ It’s the closest he’s come to acknowledging his own actions that day.

“So they want your testimony on my conduct prior to that mission,” Corvo says.

“And they want your testimony to see if you’ll crack under questioning,“ Daud follows the thought through to its logical conclusion. “No matter that any distress it will cause you is no indictment of you but them for putting you through it.”

“So what, then?”

“If you haven’t cracked under torture — and until now, there is no evidence that you have, at least as far as I can tell — then Moray is very interested in how you withstood what she couldn’t train hundreds of her spies to do. You’d be the first, Corvo. There’s no love lost for you, but she does have a vested interest to keep you alive and, for what it’s worth, sane. She’s the only one who can sway the rest of the committee to veto Burrows’ subpoena. And she has.”

“Because you asked her to?” Corvo finds that suggestion as ridiculous as anything, that much is clear. And Daud would, too, if he hadn’t been there.

“Because I told her I knew you. Because I told her that if she lets this hearing go forward without making sure you’re ready to give them the answers they need, she’s giving up her only lead. Because I told her that if they let a therapist have a crack at you first, they have an objective witness to your trustworthiness.” As Daud lays out his own path of conceit and callous calculation, he considers that this will do nothing to keep Corvo from feeling like a pawn.

“This is you grinding your axe on Burrows’ seat, isn’t it,” Corvo accuses abruptly; and it serves Daud right for making veiled references to things past while they were stationed together.

“Now you’re getting it, Attano: I didn’t do it for you.” He supposes anyone else would be hurt by such a thing, but in Corvo, it seems to spark relief, if the tension going out of his shoulders is to be believed. Pretending he has his own ambitions to tend to won’t mean any skin off his nose, if it makes this easier.

“So what’s going to happen next?”

“My hearing is still going forward,” Daud tells him, then pauses. “We should probably talk about that.”

Corvo nods. “We probably should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Vera Moray is the Wicked Witch of the ESB 👀👀👀  
> b) Corvo is suspicious and Daud has.... Opinions™  
> c) _sorropotún_ — also called _marmitaco_ , a Basque fish stew  
> d) _ttoro_ — French fish stew


End file.
